love pulse without beginning or end. But now, this pastel, melting ice-cream girl threw a switch and started sound moving.
Jonah was nothing if not a quick study. That one afternoon, sitting on the concrete steps of the Boylston Academy in chinos and a red flannel shirt alongside the pale Kimberly in her pressed taffeta elegance taught him as much about music as had his whole first year at school. In an instant, he learned the meaning of those time signatures that we already knew by ear. Jonah grabbed all the girl’s offerings, and still he made her trot out more. She kept it up for him as long as she could. Kimberly’s grasp of theory would have been impressive in someone years older. She had names for things, names my brother needed and which Boylston dribbled out too slowly. He wanted to wring the girl’s every scrap of music out of her.
When she sang tunes for us to guess, my brother was merciless. “Sing naturally. How are we supposed to tell what you’re singing, when your vibrato’s a whole step wide? It’s like you swallowed an outboard motor.”
Her jaw did its terrifying tremolo. “I am singing naturally. You’re not listening naturally!”
I struggled to my feet, ready to bolt back into the building. Already, I loved this antique girl, but my brother owned me. I saw nothing in this trade for me but an early death. I had no stomach for waiting around until disaster bloomed. But one glance from my brother cut my legs out from under me. He grabbed Kimberly by both shoulders and launched his best Caruso, as Canio in I Pagliacci , right down to the crazed stage laugh. She couldn’t help but sniffle back a smile.
“Ah, Chimera! We were just kidding, weren’t we, Joey?” My head hummed with nodding so fast.
Kimberly brightened at the spontaneous nickname. Her face cleared as fast as a Beethoven storm breaking on a single-chord modulation. She would forgive him everything, always. Already, he knew it.
“Chimera. You like that?”
She smiled so slighty, it could yield easily to denial. I didn’t know what a chimera was. Neither did Jonah or Kimberly.
“Fine. That’s what everyone will call you from now on.”
“No!” She panicked. “Not everyone.”
“Just Joey and me?”
She nodded again, smaller. I never called her that name. Not once. My brother was its sole proprietor.
Kimberly Monera turned and squinted at us, a little drunk on her new title. “Are the two of you Moors?”
One mythic creature to another.
Jonah checked with me. I held up my weaponless palms. “Depends,” he said, “on what the hell that is.”
“I’m not sure. I think they lived in Spain and moved to Venice.”
Jonah pinched his face and looked at me. His index finger drew rapid little circles around his ear, that year’s sign for those strange geometries of thought our fellow classmates called “mental.”
“They’re a darker people,” she explained. “Like Otello.”
“It’s almost dinnertime,” I said.
Jonah bent inward. “Chimera? I’ve wanted to ask you something forever. Are you an albino?”
She turned a ghastly shade of salmon.
“You know what they are?” my brother went on. “They’re a lighter people.”
Kimberly drained of what little color Italy had granted her. “My mother was like this, too. But she got darker!” Her voice, repeating the line her parents had fed her from birth, already knew the lie would never come true. Her body returned to spooky convulsions, and once more, my brother fished her out from the fires he’d lit under her.
When at last we stood to return to the building, Kimberly Monera paused in midstep, her hand in the air.
“Someday, you’ll know everything I know about music, and more.” The prophecy made her infinitely sad, as if she were already there, at the end of their lives’ intersection, sacrificed to Jonah’s voracious growth, the first of many women who’d go to their graves hollowed out by love for my brother.
“Nah,” he said. “By
Jonah was nothing if not a quick study. That one afternoon, sitting on the concrete steps of the Boylston Academy in chinos and a red flannel shirt alongside the pale Kimberly in her pressed taffeta elegance taught him as much about music as had his whole first year at school. In an instant, he learned the meaning of those time signatures that we already knew by ear. Jonah grabbed all the girl’s offerings, and still he made her trot out more. She kept it up for him as long as she could. Kimberly’s grasp of theory would have been impressive in someone years older. She had names for things, names my brother needed and which Boylston dribbled out too slowly. He wanted to wring the girl’s every scrap of music out of her.
When she sang tunes for us to guess, my brother was merciless. “Sing naturally. How are we supposed to tell what you’re singing, when your vibrato’s a whole step wide? It’s like you swallowed an outboard motor.”
Her jaw did its terrifying tremolo. “I am singing naturally. You’re not listening naturally!”
I struggled to my feet, ready to bolt back into the building. Already, I loved this antique girl, but my brother owned me. I saw nothing in this trade for me but an early death. I had no stomach for waiting around until disaster bloomed. But one glance from my brother cut my legs out from under me. He grabbed Kimberly by both shoulders and launched his best Caruso, as Canio in I Pagliacci , right down to the crazed stage laugh. She couldn’t help but sniffle back a smile.
“Ah, Chimera! We were just kidding, weren’t we, Joey?” My head hummed with nodding so fast.
Kimberly brightened at the spontaneous nickname. Her face cleared as fast as a Beethoven storm breaking on a single-chord modulation. She would forgive him everything, always. Already, he knew it.
“Chimera. You like that?”
She smiled so slighty, it could yield easily to denial. I didn’t know what a chimera was. Neither did Jonah or Kimberly.
“Fine. That’s what everyone will call you from now on.”
“No!” She panicked. “Not everyone.”
“Just Joey and me?”
She nodded again, smaller. I never called her that name. Not once. My brother was its sole proprietor.
Kimberly Monera turned and squinted at us, a little drunk on her new title. “Are the two of you Moors?”
One mythic creature to another.
Jonah checked with me. I held up my weaponless palms. “Depends,” he said, “on what the hell that is.”
“I’m not sure. I think they lived in Spain and moved to Venice.”
Jonah pinched his face and looked at me. His index finger drew rapid little circles around his ear, that year’s sign for those strange geometries of thought our fellow classmates called “mental.”
“They’re a darker people,” she explained. “Like Otello.”
“It’s almost dinnertime,” I said.
Jonah bent inward. “Chimera? I’ve wanted to ask you something forever. Are you an albino?”
She turned a ghastly shade of salmon.
“You know what they are?” my brother went on. “They’re a lighter people.”
Kimberly drained of what little color Italy had granted her. “My mother was like this, too. But she got darker!” Her voice, repeating the line her parents had fed her from birth, already knew the lie would never come true. Her body returned to spooky convulsions, and once more, my brother fished her out from the fires he’d lit under her.
When at last we stood to return to the building, Kimberly Monera paused in midstep, her hand in the air.
“Someday, you’ll know everything I know about music, and more.” The prophecy made her infinitely sad, as if she were already there, at the end of their lives’ intersection, sacrificed to Jonah’s voracious growth, the first of many women who’d go to their graves hollowed out by love for my brother.
“Nah,” he said. “By
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